34. Off work

The next morning, I went to my nearest GP, who I had found in the Yellow Pages with Isobel’s help. Everything went according to plan. I trotted out the description of my symptoms that I had practised with Isobel, winced at the right moments, and before I knew it I was walking out the door with a sick note in my hand, signed off work for a week.

“Just give me a call if you need to extend it,” said the cheery doctor, who clearly dispensed time off work as casually as he might hand out leaflets on avoiding athlete’s foot. “You don’t need to put yourself through all the trouble of coming into the practice when you’re in so much pain.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you, but I hope it won’t be necessary,” I said, trying — in my Calvinistic Scottish way — to convey my eagerness to return to work.

“But you have to take off enough time to let your body heal,” he said, giving me a disapproving frown. “I know you English, you’re all workaholics. You’d be going into work with one leg hanging off if nobody stopped you.”

I thanked the doctor and hobbled painfully out of the surgery.

Back home, I phoned Ana at the office to tell her the bad news. She was so sympathetic and concerned that I experienced an attack of conscience.

“I can do some work from home, of course,” I emphasised. “I have some stuff to be getting on with, and maybe I can send my friend in to pick up –”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” snapped Ana. “The doctor signed you off work so you could rest and get better. I don’t want you working and over-exerting yourself.”

“Oh, I’m not in so much pain that I can’t –”

“Promise you won’t do any work,” she insisted. “I know you English, you’re all workaholics.”

There was nothing for me to do but promise — with fingers crossed — that I wouldn’t do any work.

“And take more time off if you need it,” she said. “I don’t want to see you again until you’re completely better.”

So my subterfuge turned out to be a complete success, and any guilty feelings I had soon evaporated when I saw how much work I could get done on the book without the distractions of having colleagues. And I salved my conscience with the thought that I was after all doing work for Henk, so it was no great sin that I was committing.

Isobel came over to help with the book whenever she had time. We decided I should stay in the flat as much as possible for the sake of my cover, in case someone from the Verlag phoned, and Isobel — bless her — even went to the supermarket to get my shopping for me.

If she didn’t have to go to university or to work — she had a part-time job in an art gallery — then Isobel would often stay at the flat for hours. Once we got our work done for the day, we would just sit and drink tea and chat. I enjoyed her company and liked talking to her. She was a good listener and I never had the feeling I needed to watch what I said or try to impress her.

I got to know her a lot better during those odd in-between days. I found out more about her university course (too much Heidegger, not enough Habermas), who her friends were (bitchy Helene, helpful Beate), and what she liked to do in her spare time (play cell in a string quartet, write poetry).

She also found out more about me. I told her all about growing up in Edinburgh and what studying there was like (she was pleased by the coincidence that we were both students in European capitals who lived with our parents). It was strange to talk to her about Edinburgh; it already seemed like another life. On some level, I just assumed that I lived in Berlin, always had done and always would.

The work was going well too. We were right on schedule and would have the book finished in time if nothing went wrong. Or so we thought, until that fateful Wednesday evening.